


Takes One to Know One

by clio_jlh



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Con Artists, Falling In Love, Father-Son Relationship, First Time, Humor, M/M, Musicians, RPF, Romance, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio_jlh/pseuds/clio_jlh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is using Simon Cowell's old methods to steal jewelry from the wealthy summering in the south of France, and only he has the skills to work out who is doing it and stop them before the police send him to jail instead. And rich young American Ryan Seacrest is a distraction he can't afford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Takes One to Know One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/reel_idol/profile)[**reel_idol**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/reel_idol/) challenge and based on the film [_To Catch a Thief_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_Catch_a_Thief_%28film%29). Thanks to [](http://ignaz.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ignaz**](http://ignaz.dreamwidth.org/) for her amazing beta skills and general cheerleading!  
> For reasons that will become clear, Ryan's parents in this story are _not_ Gary and Connie Seacrest; instead they are Ryan's mentor [Merv Griffin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merv_Griffin) and his companion [Eva Gabor](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eva_Gabor). Also, I've moved the timing from the post-WWII 1950s to the post-WWI 1920s. In doing so, I have slightly altered the timeline of an actor referred to in the story.

May, 1927

Ryan Seacrest was bored. While he and his father had been spending all or part of the summer on the French Riviera for the past five years, ever since that horrible year Ryan's mother died, this year they were on the Continent for a much longer stay. Merv had been ordered by his doctors to slow down for his heart's sake, and Ryan was the only person who had any hope of making that happen. Griffin Pictures could get by without its fearless leader for a little while, though even at this distance Ryan was able to keep tabs on operations. He might be only twenty-five, but he was also Merv Griffin's son; he'd been raised to be a producer.

He looked up at the photograph of his mother smiling down at him from the side table, all blonde curls and big brown eyes. Eva would know what to do next, how to handle Merv, take care of him without his noticing. Ryan wanted to move on, as Paris just wasn't that interesting if one wasn't in love, full as it was of Americans soaking up culture and listening to the same jazz that, frankly, they could hear in Chicago or New York or even Los Angeles if they only dared to venture into the colored part of town. It was nearly summer anyway; time to be in some sun-and-fun locale.

Ryan flipped through the paper, restless. "Padre," he said, using the only father name Merv would answer to, "what do you say about heading to the Riviera a little early?"

Merv was lounging on the chaise in the sitting room of their hotel suite in his usual afternoon ensemble of caftan and embroidered slippers. "Hmm?" he asked. "Well, we've only been staying in the city so you could flirt with that boy of yours."

"Oh, he's not worth it," Ryan said, shaking his head.

"The city is a bit dead, it's true," Merv replied. "Let's go then."

"Great! I'll start packing," Ryan said, tossing the paper down on this chair.

Merv reached for it as Ryan pulled the cases out of the closet. "Did you see this?"

"What?" Ryan asked.

"Some cat burglar, a hero who'd been paroled after the Great War, is up to his old tricks in the hotels near Nice," Merv said, reading. "Says here he's quite a handsome man, too."

"Really? I hadn't read that far."

Merv raised his eyebrows. "Like hell. Who do you think you're talking to, kiddo?"

Ryan grinned sheepishly. "Well, at least there'll be some excitement."

* * *

 

Simon Cowell was having a rotten day. Some idiot was using Simon's old methods to steal jewels from the wealthy revelers in Nice, which not only got Simon's name back in the paper but also got the police on his back, and he'd had to spend the better part of the morning shaking them off. He headed to the waterfront restaurant of an old war buddy, expecting sympathy, and was met instead with hostility. Even Randy, one of his closest pals during the war, gave him the cold shoulder! Well, Simon was going to put a stop to this nonsense directly.

He made his way through the lunch crowd to the office in the back. Sitting behind the desk was Kara, a slim, good-looking brunette who could pass for twenty-five if she chose to, but Simon knew she was actually on the other side of forty. Her straight hair was cropped short, her lips stained a deep crimson, and she had on one of those patterned kimonos that so many working women wore, but which Simon just found odd, as though she were wearing a Chinese screen. She looked up as he came in.

"Well, if it isn't my old friend Simon. I wasn't expecting you to actually come here." She sat back from the desk, crossing her legs.

"I can tell," Simon said, sitting down in front of her. "My reception has been decidedly chilly."

"Why are you surprised?" she asked. "Your going back to your old ways makes us all look bad."

"Me? I haven't gone back to anything!"

"No?" she asked. "You sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure," he said. "I'm being set up."

She shrugged. "Spoken like a guilty man. How many of us didn't say the same thing when we were caught by the police? Remember, Simon, we didn't get pardoned for all that intelligence work we did in the war. We were _paroled_, and those paroles can be taken back at any time. We don't keep our noses clean, it's right back to the hoosegow." She looked past him, out the window of her office. "Those kids out there just want the same rules applied to you as apply to them for working here."

"I work just as hard as they do," Simon said.

"Oh, up in that villa of yours?" she asked. "Growing grapes and flowers?"

"Don't be sarcastic. Farming is hard work."

"Still, if they don't stay out of trouble I'll kick them out. What would happen to you?"

"Need I remind you that I spent the morning evading the police?" he asked. "I'm no more interested in returning to jail than you are."

"Fine, you're the innocent victim," Kara said, throwing up her hands. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Simon thought for a moment. "It has to be someone we know, someone from our unit in the war. Someone who knows all my methods, all my secrets. This new cat burglar has been climbing up onto the roofs, coming down through the skylights, just as I did. And they've been choosing their targets very carefully—only the best jewels."

"But they could also be someone who studied you. You know none of the other men could match you, even when you'd trained them yourself."

Simon looked up. "That's it!"

"What?" Kara asked.

"I'm the only one who can anticipate his next move and catch him in the act. I find him on a rooftop with his pockets full of jewels and you'll have to believe me. You and the police both."

Kara raised an eyebrow. "You really think you can do that?" she asked. "It's quite a risk."

"It's better than running from the police," he said. "But he's so far ahead of me. That kind of knowledge takes months to put together—who has the jewels worth taking, where they live, what their habits are."

"You know," Kara said, "there _was_ someone here in the restaurant yesterday, asking those kinds of questions. I didn't like the look of them."

"Really?" Simon asked. "Who were they?"

"They said they were from some insurance company, but that's an easy cover, isn't it?"

Simon tapped his fingers on his knee. "Do you think you could arrange a meeting for me?"   
"Do you think that's wise?" she asked.

"It's a place to start."

Kara shrugged. "I suppose what helps you, helps us, right? We don't need the police here any more than you do." She looked out her window at the restaurant, then sat up. "Speaking of which …"

Simon ducked down, out of sight of her office window. "They're here?"

"Yep," Kara said.

Randy lumbered into the room then. He'd never been particularly light on his feet, but his war injuries made him even slower moving. "We gotta get him out of here," he said, indicating Simon with a tilt of the head but still refusing to look at him. Simon shook his head—if his old friends really did believe he was up to his old tricks, he was in a worse position than he'd thought.

Kara looked at Simon, then back at Randy. "Take him out the back and down to the wine cellar. Paula's down there; she can take him out in the speedboat." To Simon she said, "Wait at the beach club at Cannes. I'll call with the details of the meeting."

"Thanks, Kara," Simon said, shaking her hand.

Randy stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "All right, Cowell, come on."

As they walked down the stairs Simon said, "Randy, I haven't stolen a thing since before the war. You have to believe me."

"Cowell," Randy said, not looking at him, "I'm only helping you now because if the cops find you here, it's _our_ asses. No other reason. Got it?"

Simon sighed. "Got it."

"Paula?" Randy called out.

Paula was sitting in front of one of the wine casks, making some notes on a clipboard. She was tiny, a little older than Kara, with a chestnut bob and the muscular body of the dancer she had once been. "What's he doing here?" she asked.

"Making trouble as usual," Randy said. "Kara says to take him to Cannes."

Paula scowled. "Fine, but I wish you all would remember that I'm not a _taxi driver_." She pulled on a cloche hat and tugged at Simon's arm. "Hurry up. You want to get away from them, don't you?"

* * *

 

Paula steered them away from the restaurant and out into the open water, zooming along at a high speed. She was just as silent and sullen as the rest had been back at the restaurant, but even at this rate it would take them a good half hour to get to Cannes, and Simon doubted that Paula would be able to stay silent for the entire trip. For his part, he was mostly content to rest a bit and enjoy the view of the mountains dropping down into the blue waters of the Mediterranean, their slopes dotted with red tile roofs.

Paula picked up speed, crashing through the wake of another boat. "Oi," Simon said. "You're splashing me."

"I'm sorry," Paula said, grinning. "I forgot that cats don't like water."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Paula. I'm not the _Cat_!"

"Of course you won't admit it," she said. "But look at you, all bright-eyed from running from the police. You miss the excitement."

"Of what, imminent incarceration?" Simon asked. "No thanks. I like my freedom just fine, even if it is conditional."

Paula looked him up and down. "But freedom isn't worth much without the money to enjoy it, is it? Don't tell me a flower garden pays for the upkeep on that villa of yours."

"It's honest work," Simon replied.

"But you could do better," Paula said, an eyebrow raised. "Plenty of American tourists in France these days to take advantage of. Isn't it an English tradition, giving an heiress a little class in return for her money? Not that you have much class to offer, but still."

"So I've moved from thief to gigolo, have I?"

"Take me in as a partner and you wouldn't have to."

"A partner? In what, growing a flower garden?"

"Fine, don't admit it. Though I would think that since I'm such an old friend you could trust me."

"You mean the wife of an old friend. Sometimes I think you forget that."

"There was a time when you forgot, too," she replied.

"Yes, well," Simon said, clearing his throat. "That was a long time ago—and before you were married to Randy, I might add."

They drove on in silence. "So," Paula said, casually, "I hear the Argentine is very romantic. Is that where you plan to go?"

"I'm not going anyplace," Simon said.

"I've always wanted to visit the Argentine," she said, dreamily. "I speak Spanish you know. And I can dance a mean tango."

"I'm sure you can," Simon replied dryly, "but I think we're out of step."

"And you know how good I am at fencing the goods."

Simon sighed. "Paula …"

"C'mon," she said, hitting him in the arm. "You know you need me."

"Perhaps I would—if I were climbing over rooftops again. Look, are there still suits down below deck?"

"Yes, why?"

"You pull in among the other boats and I'll swim to shore. We'll rouse less suspicion that way."

"See," she said, "you still have all the old instincts."

He shook his head. "Can I trust you to get me my clothes back?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "I think we're well past the clothes-stealing phase."

"No peeking now," he said as he went down the stairs.

"There's nothing there I haven't seen," she said.

* * *

 

Simon swam to shore without incident and settled in one of the unoccupied beach chairs. Sunbathing was a new craze at Cannes, brought to France from California by a young, wealthy American couple who'd also made summering on the Riviera fashionable—until a few years ago, the coast had been only a winter destination. Chairs lined the beach at Cannes, some shaded by umbrellas but most not, as the sunbathers worked on their tans. It was strange; when he was young the wealthy kept out of the sun and wanted to be as pale as possible because a tan was the sign of a worker. Now the idle rich were as tanned, or even more, as he was from working outside all day.

On the chaise next to him was just such a specimen: a young, blondish man, American by the look of him, and a dandy at that. He wore sunglasses and a skimpy suit well suited for both showing off his trim figure and keeping up his deep tan. Simon grinned a little to himself, seeing the obvious sugar daddy sitting on the other side of him. And just the type—wearing a bathing costume and robe of a particularly flamboyant and old-fashioned sort, sitting under a large umbrella and sipping a cold drink through a straw. Paula was wrong—it was that money wasn't worth the freedom you sacrificed, not the other way around. But then, the Riviera had been full of Americans for the last few years, fat and happy on their money from making obscure industrial products. Last season he'd met an exceedingly dull but immensely wealthy man whose factory made door handles for automobiles. This pair, however, looked to be in a somewhat more interesting line.

"Monsieur?"

Simon looked up to see the cabana attendant, a sometime employee of Kara's. "Yes?"

"Telephone for you."

"Thank you," Simon said, leaving behind the Americans.

Kara said her part quickly. "Your contact will meet you at the flower market at two this afternoon. I said you'd be tossing a coin."

"Got it," Simon said, and she rang off. He stood for a moment, wondering what to do next, when the attendant approached him again.

"You will find your clothes in cabana three, monsieur," he said.

Simon nodded. Paula always did move quickly when she had a mind to.

* * *

 

Simon leaned against a lamp post in one corner of the market, tossing a coin and feeling rather ridiculous, not to mention uncomfortably conspicuous for a man currently evading the police. A slight blond man in a double-breasted blue suit and matching hat looked at him and asked, "Tryin' to see if it's fixed?"

"Fixed?" Simon asked.

The man moved closer, smiling broadly in that particularly American way. "Yeah, you know, seeing if it comes up even heads and tails. Anyway, I'm E.L. Degeneres, pleased to meet ya."

Simon took the offered hand and though the handshake was firm, the hand itself was quite small. He looked again. "She didn't tell me that you're—"

"American? Yeah," Degeneres replied. "But I work for Lloyds of London. Out of the Los Angeles office. Lots of Americans in France this summer. Kind of a headache if you ask me. Florida or California have beaches just as nice."

"No. I mean, yes, clearly you're an American," Simon said, "but she didn't tell me that you're a _woman_."

"Oh," she said. "Yeah. A lot of people miss that."

"I'm sure it's simply her idea of a joke," Simon replied, rolling his eyes. "So you're an insurance man—er, woman?"

"Yep. Kara said you wanted to use your know-how to catch the fellow who's been aping your style."

"That's about the size of it," Simon said. "I wonder if you'd take a risk on me, Miss Degeneres?"

"Ellen, please. I dunno, it's a bad risk, if you know what I'm saying. I got a good job and a good wife and I wanna keep both of them."

"A wife?" Simon asked. "How did you manage that?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking Portia is my wife," Ellen said, "but only in a manner of speaking."

"Then you could be my partner in a manner of speaking, couldn't you?" he asked. "After all, what do you have to lose? The main office would only know if I fail."

"_That_ is what I have to lose."

"Well, you're the insurance man. I suppose you know best when a possible gain isn't worth the risk." He smiled. "Have fun paying all those claims," he said, and started to walk away.

"Wait," Ellen said, touching his arm.

He turned toward her and raised one eyebrow.

"Okay, so maybe you have a point. I suppose we could work together, _unofficially_."

"Brilliant," Simon said. "I thought you'd see it that way, given that I'm the one actually taking all the risks."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"If I fail, I go back to jail," he said.

Ellen looked at him for a long moment. "Only an honest man would be such an idiot," she said.

"And there you have me." Simon looked up and noticed a policeman following them at a somewhat less than discreet distance. "I'm afraid I'll have to cut our conversation short," he said, starting to walk a bit more quickly.

"What do you need from me?" Ellen asked.

"A list of the top five or so prospects, with all the details you can think of."   
"Details of the pieces?"

"That, but also their residences, their habits, all that sort of thing." He started to move faster. "I'll contact you?"

Ellen slowed down. "I'm staying at the Carlisle!" she shouted.

Simon waved, then cut through a side alley in the market, evading the policeman who was following him—but running smack into his partner. "You have to admit, it was a good chase while it lasted," he said as they took him away.

* * *

 

The police could only keep him for an hour or so, and as soon as they let him go Simon called Ellen and invited her to cocktails at his home. Simon's villa was a modest one, despite what Kara or Paula liked to imply. It was too far up the hill and had too few bedrooms to be fashionable, but it was enough for him to live in comfortably, and the terraced property was perfect for growing the grapes and flowers that paid his bills. And after all the years of ingratiating himself into first London and then Paris society, then prison and then the war, he liked having a bit of isolation, a retreat of sorts. He still had a good eye for pretty things, and his villa was well set up, but with finds from local markets and other inexpensive trinkets that had appealed to him. It was as though after the war he'd rediscovered the modest tastes of his youth.

"Beautiful place you've got here," Ellen said, looking down the hillside at the lights and the ocean below. She was wearing another suit, a black evening suit this time, and Simon wondered if she only wore men's clothing.

"You like it?" Simon asked, cocktail shaker in hand.

"It's the sort of home a person dreams of retiring to in his old age," she replied.

"Well, I'm not that old _yet_," Simon said.

"So the cops couldn't keep you, huh?" she asked.

"Not enough evidence," he said. "I think they're hoping they'll catch me in the act." He handed her a martini.

"Thank you." She sipped her drink. "Oh, lovely. That's one advantage of being in France, at least—real booze."

Simon chuckled. "All these Americans are just fleeing prohibition, is that it?"

"Something like that. And what brought you to France?"

"Other than a few outstanding warrants?" he asked. "Yes, I began my illustrious career in London, but I was young and not quite as successful. By the time I arrived in Paris, I'd honed my craft, so to speak."

Ellen raised her eyebrows. "You're pretty unapologetic," she said.

Simon shrugged. "What's done is done," he said. "I went to jail. I worked intelligence in the war and earned my parole. If there's any excuse to be had, I only stole from those who could afford it. As you well know."

"So you were a sort of Robin Hood?"

"Of course not," Simon said. "I wanted that posh life I saw around me and in the newspapers. I'd started out as a sort of aspiring impresario, backing singers on their tours, but it turns out that most show people don't make much money."

"And you expect everyone to believe you've turned over a new leaf now?" she asked.

"I'm not so stupid to risk my freedom for a little bit of money," he said. "It's all well and good when you don't think you can be caught, but once you have been—well, let's say jail is a pretty powerful deterrent, at least for me. I _am_ old enough to no longer think of myself as invincible."

"But you think you can catch your copy-cat?" she asked, then started to laugh. "Ha, copy-_cat_, get it?" she asked, nudging him with her elbow.

Simon scowled. "It's one thing to evade every policeman in Europe. Quite another to catch just one thief, especially when one can anticipate his movements, since he's a carbon copy of oneself. Besides, I'm tired of getting a visit from the local constable every time a bracelet goes missing."

"Must be frustrating," she said.

"Indeed." He picked up the shaker and poured them both another drink. "So, the list?"

Ellen pulled a sheet of paper from her inside jacket pocket. "One thing," she said. "I told the police about your plan."

Simon shrugged. "I suppose honesty is as much of a habit as dishonesty," he said. "I'm sure they were unamused."

"Not a bit," she said. "They were all for it. They think you'll make a mistake, and then they'll have their evidence."

"_That_ doesn't surprise me," Simon replied. "Since we have their blessing, the list?"

Ellen handed him the paper and Simon looked it over carefully.

"Well done, Ellen," he said. "Wish I'd known someone in insurance back when I was stealing. Took me months to get similar information." He continued to read. "I'll start with this pair at the top, the film magnate and his son."

"I'm having a late supper with them this evening. I could introduce you."

Simon grinned, shaking his head. "Ellen, please. We can't do this sort of thing _on the level_."

* * *

 

Ryan sat at dinner with Merv and their insurance agent, Ellen, who'd become a good friend in the last few years. Ryan had been relieved to find that she was in France, looking after her American clients. She was always good for a joke or some fun, unlike the often-stuffy Brits who looked down their noses at someone as unconcerned with appearances as Merv Griffin was. Even Ryan sometimes winced a little at Merv's outfits and jeweled cravats and loud laughter, but it kept the worst of the fortune hunters well away. And at least Merv was no phony.

"Ooh," Merv said. "What about _him_? Better than the boys you're usually staring at, eh, Ryan?"

Ryan looked up. The restaurant was nearly empty, so it wasn't difficult to spot the man in a tuxedo striding confidently across the room to the door. He was small, barrel-chested, dark haired with a tan. "He's all right," Ryan said.

"He's more than that," Merv said. "Look how he moves. Like a panther."

"Maybe he's the Cat," Ryan said, smiling.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Ellen said quickly.

Ryan cocked his head. "Thefts making you nervous?"

"The Home Office never likes paying settlements," Ellen said. "The entire point is to avoid the risk. For example, if you left some of your jewelry in the hotel safe, Mr. Griffin."

"Nope," Merv said. "I worked hard for these gems, and I like watching them sparkle. If I was gonna leave them in the safe, what's the point in buying them in the first place?"

Ryan patted his hand. "That's right, Padre. You tell 'em."

The waiter approached with the check then. "Don't even think about reaching for your wallet," Merv said to Ellen, signing his room number at the bottom. "Now you deserve some fun since you put up with me so well. Let's hit that casino, my treat," Merv said, rising.

"Oh, no need, Mr. Griffin," she said. "It's really a pleasure."

"Not everyone likes to gamble, Padre," Ryan said.

"Aw, hell, Ryan," Merv said. "As vices go it's actually relatively cheap. Better than some gigolo taking it all and leaving me broken-hearted, or spending it all on cocaine and not remembering the party the next day. No, at least I'll know exactly where my money is going, and have the fun of watching it go there."

"But there aren't any horses here," Ryan said. "And I won't let you play poker with strangers."

"Blackjack?" Merv asked.

"No cards," Ryan said, firmly.

"I'm starting to like roulette, actually," Merv replied. "Completely does away with any pretense of skill."

In the casino they saw the man from the dining room, and of course Merv became distracted. "How about craps?" he asked, making a beeline for the table.

"I should have said 'no dice,'" Ryan muttered to Ellen.

Merv got to the table and looked over the other players, then put his bet down.

It was the handsome man's turn to shoot the dice. "So a seven or an eleven, eh?" he said in an English accent. "I'm still trying to work out how this is different from what I played in the alleys of London as a boy."

Merv grinned. "Chances are it isn't," he said.

"Oh, well," the man replied with a smile. "Why didn't they say so in the first place?" He flicked his hand, and threw a neat seven.

"Well done," Merv said.

"Thank you," the man said, and shot the dice again. The others around the table cheered as he won for the table.

"Well," Merv said.

Ryan watched as the man continued to win. A crowd was gathering but he paid little attention to that, keeping his eyes on his dice and the table. After four more passes, he handed the dice over and threw up his hands. "I still have money because I know when to quit," he said, and the crowd applauded him. He grinned and took a little bow, his dark eyes sparkling.

Merv picked up his chips, which had tripled thanks to the man's efforts. "Let me buy you a drink," Merv said to him, "since you won me this money."

"I think you brought me luck," the man replied. "Or confidence, anyway." He shook Merv's hand. "Name's Leach."

"Mine's Griffin," Merv said. He put an arm around Leach. "Come on, let's get a cocktail," he said, and led him to the bar. "Isn't often we find a fellow bootstrapper around these parts."

"Bootstrapper?" Leach asked as they found a table.

"You know, self-made man," Merv said. "Not many Brits who can afford to stay on the Riviera played craps in alleyways when they were a kid."

"I suppose not," Leach replied. "But whether I can afford to stay here or not, I don't run with those crowds. Bright young things are a bit too young for me, and anyway, I haven't a title. I'm just in trade."

"They don't have much time for an old vaudevillian turned Hollywood man either," Merv said, "but they'll take to Ryan all right, as long as I stay out of the picture."

"C'mon, Padre," Ryan said. "They think you're a scream and you know it."

"I'm sure they do," Leach said.

The waiter arrived, and after Ellen and Ryan asked for martinis, Merv ordered his usual Manhattan.

"Make that two," Leach said.

Merv turned. "Well, never knew a Brit to drink bourbon, either," Merv said. "But I like to know that I'm drinking."

"I've always preferred whiskey," Leach said smoothly. "So you two are father and son?"

"Ryan favors his mother," Merv said, "and good thing, too. Never known a girl who belonged on that stage as much as she did."

"And is the younger Mr. Griffin also in show business?" Leach asked.

"Seacrest, actually," Ryan said. "Took my mother's name after she passed. Didn't want to trade on the padre's reputation."

"That's very admirable," Leach said, and Ryan inclined his head in response.

"Eva was a real lady," Merv said. "It's a shame she didn't get to appreciate our success." He took a drag of his cigarette. "We met in vaudeville, you see—"

Ryan interrupted, "I'm sure that Mr. Leach—"

"No, no," Leach said. "I'd love to hear about her."

Merv smiled. "Eva was a glowing thing. Just lit up that stage. And the camera _loved_ her. That was the beginning of everything, when we put her in that movie back in '08."

"Wait," Leach said, thinking. "Little Evie Seacrest? That was your mother?"

"Yep," Ryan replied.

"But she was just a girl," Leach said.

Ryan smiled. "She always played younger parts," he explained. "She was small and youthful-looking enough for the camera."

"Everyone loved her," Merv said. "She was the best hostess in Hollywood." He smiled, remembering. "But enough about that. What's your line, Leach?"

"Me?" he asked. "I have a little factory in England, makes door handles for automobiles."

"Doing well?" Merv asked.

"Very well," Leach replied. "I'm on holiday in France, aren't I?" He winked.

"Looking for a wife?" Merv asked.

"Well, I don't discriminate," Leach said.

"Oh really?" Merv replied, and he was almost purring.

Ryan dug his fingers into his knees under the table and turned to Ellen, who was trying not to laugh.

"Would you mind if I called Pinkerton's about you?" Merv asked.

"No," Leach replied, "but why would you need to have me investigated?"

"If I were Ryan's age," he said, "I'd think you were too good to be true. In fact, you must be, because you've barely looked at him since we sat down."

Leach looked at Ryan appraisingly, and Ryan could have sworn he felt a vibration, a hum of electricity. He concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. "He is quite a handsome man," Leach replied.

"Why thank you," Ryan said. "And thanks, Padre, but I can find my own playmates."

"Yes, you've done very well so far," Merv replied, not quite rolling his eyes.

Ryan shifted in his chair. "It's getting late," he said. "Better get your beauty sleep, so Mr. Leach will keep coming around."

"I'm pretty sure he isn't here for me, kiddo," Merv replied, "but you're right. Let's toddle off."

Ellen said goodnight at the elevator, but Leach insisted on escorting Ryan and Merv to their suite, even taking Merv's key.

"Quite the gentleman," Merv said as Leach unlocked the door. "Goodnight, young people."

"Goodnight," Leach said, then turned to Ryan. "Aren't you going in?"

"I'm on the other end," Ryan said, walking down to the next door. He opened it, then turned back to Leach and thought, why not? He reached up and pulled the man into a kiss. Leach was surprised, but he clearly knew his way around a kiss. Ryan did, too, and made sure Leach knew it.

He pulled away. "Good night, Mr. Leach."

Leach blinked. "Good night," he said.

Ryan closed the door, grinning to himself as he walked into his bedroom. "Leach, is it?" he whispered to himself. "Fine, if that's how you want to play it. But you're not going to con your way into the padre's jewels, Mr. Cowell. Not if I can help it."

* * *

 

Simon had to hand it to the kid—he was determined. To do what, he wasn't sure, but it took him a moment to shake off that kiss Ryan gave him. Then he snuck down the hallway to a door at the end that opened onto a balcony. Outside, he looked up at the roof, checking the access to Merv's room. It would be a pretty simple mark—plenty of hand holds to take you down from the roof to his window and back again, and just one policeman on patrol on the street below. Really, if they were so worried about a cat burglar, one would think they would put a few more men on the hotels. But that was French efficiency for you.

The next morning he woke to a summons from Ryan to come up to their suite, though when he arrived Ryan didn't appear to be up yet. Merv was full of news, however, and Ellen was with him.

"There's been another burglary," Merv said, all excitement.

"Really?" Simon asked.

"The wife of a government official," Ellen replied.

"How much?" Simon asked.

"Nearly fifty thousand American dollars," Ellen said. She turned to Merv. "This is why I'd like you to keep your jewels in the hotel safe," she said.

"And put the safe on my finger when I go out?" Merv asked. "No, I bought those jewels to wear them. If you don't like the risk, you shouldn't have insured them. I can't help it if some silly burglar has named himself after an animal."

"Of course we'll pay you," Ellen said, "but we can't replace the sentiment."

"Please," Merv said, waving a hand. "Those jewels are just to attract attention, get the kid in places they might not accept an aging song and dance man. You heard him last night. I make myself into a character, and the kids think I'm a scream, instead of merely vulgar."

"I know I've only known you a day, Mr. Griffin," Simon said, "but you are far from vulgar."

"That's what I keep telling him," Ryan said as he came into the room from his adjoining suite, "but he just won't believe me. Hello, Ellen. You look worried."

"There was another burglary last night," she replied.

"Oh really?" Ryan asked, looking at Simon. "The Cat strikes again."

"It would seem so," Simon said, returning his even stare. "So, you sent for me, Mr. Seacrest?"

"I did," Ryan said, smiling. "I thought we might go for a swim, or just sunbathing if that's too much for you. It's the latest thing."

"I think I can manage to stay afloat," Simon replied. "I'll just go get my trunks and meet you downstairs."

"Perfect," Ryan said.

"Say, Leach," Ellen said.

"Yes?" Simon replied.

"Um, watcha doin' this afternoon?" she asked, giving him a light punch in the shoulder.

"What? Oh, I have a list here from my realtor of some furnished villas for rent," he said, pulling the list of potential targets Ellen had given him from his inside jacket pocket. "I'm going to take a look at them after lunch. Some of them apparently have roofs that need careful inspection."

Ellen's expression didn't change, to her credit. "Sounds like a plan!" she said.

* * *

 

Ryan kept him waiting a bit in the lobby, which didn't surprise Simon, so he went to the desk to drop off his key. "You have a message, monsieur," the attendant said, and handed him an envelope. Inside was a sheet of hotel paper, and written in block printing:   


> Cowell,  
> You've used up 8 of your lives. Don't risk the 9th. Go while the going is good.

"Guess I'm getting close," Simon said to himself as he ripped up the message.

"Bad news, Leach?" Ryan asked, walking toward him.

"Just business," Simon said. "And nothing important. You'd think they'd realize I'm on holiday." He looked up and saw that Ryan was in a rather snug shirt that stretched across his shoulders and chest, and crisp white pleated trousers—just the fashion, but Simon had rarely seen anyone wear it quite so well.

Ryan raised his eyebrows. "Well, shall we?"

"Indeed," Simon said, walking through the lobby with him. Women—and some men—stared at Ryan, who bore it all as though he were used to it. Perhaps he was.

They changed into their trunks in the cabana, and when Ryan emerged in trunks and sunglasses Simon realized why he'd seemed familiar—he and Merv had been the Americans next to him on the beach the morning before. Of course Merv looked very different in evening wear than in his beach caftan and truth be told, he hadn't been looking at the young man's face at the time. But he also realized how much he'd been drawn in by Ryan's green eyes—the young man was much more difficult to read with his sunglasses on.

Ryan looked him up and down. "You're more muscular than you look," he said.

Simon inclined his head. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It is," Ryan said. "Do you want an umbrella?"

"No, no," Simon replied. "I like basking in the sun."

Ryan grinned. "I bet you do," he said.

They found two chairs right at the water, and settled into them. A silence fell, more charged than awkward, and Simon found it difficult to keep from just staring at Ryan. He had no doubt that was precisely what Ryan wanted, but somehow he didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Not yet, anyway.

Only a few minutes later he noticed Paula, standing by the cabanas and waving to him, then swimming to the float a few feet out from the beach. Simon got up and asked Ryan if he'd like a swim, and to his relief Ryan shook his head and waved him off.

Paula was lying on the float when he reached it. "What the hell, Paula?"

She grinned. "That was some score you pulled off last night, Simon," she said.

"All in a night's work," Simon replied.

"And already today you're working on your next target, I see," Paula said.

"What makes you think I'm not interested in him for his looks?" Simon asked.

"Because then you'd have to spend your money to keep him," Paula replied, "and he doesn't look like the type to be understanding about your night job."

"I'd say he's more of a useful friend than he looks," Simon said.

"You know, your old friends at the restaurant were very unhappy that the police had to let you go yesterday."

"Unsurprising, as I'm sure one of them tipped off the police about the meeting at the flower market in the first place."

"Please," Paula said, "they would never say anything to the police. They hate the police almost as much as they hate you."

"Well, someone told them."

"Still, they would love it if you were caught at your next job."

"Nice to know I still have friends," Simon said.

"Maybe it would be better if you were caught. In the kitchen they are wondering if it wouldn't be better for them if something happened to you. Those roofs are awfully high, you know."

"Lovely," Simon said. "My old friends want me dead, the police want me in jail, and the Cat wants me out of town."

"Out of town?" she asked.

"Yes, I got a message from him today, warning me away."

"Then why stay, with so many people after you? Come to the Argentine with me, and I'll be the only one after you."

"Sounds dangerous either way," Simon said.

"I hope so," Paula said with a leer.

"Do remember that you are married to a friend of mine," Simon replied.

Paula sat back, scowling. "Simon, I'm serious—if you pull off another job they'll do something to you. They're determined not to go back to jail."

"Duly noted. But I'd better get back."

Paula looked at Ryan, still lying in his chair. "What would you want with him anyway?" she asked. "He's so … _typical_. And you don't need his money."

"Actually, he's not typical at all," Simon said. "He's a lot smarter than he looks."

"Why would you want to start all over with someone new," she asked, "when you can already have me? We all know how much you hate courting."

"A man likes unchartered territory," Simon replied. "Or at least someplace that doesn't have prior claims." He turned to go, and noticed the chair was now empty. "Now you've done it. He's wandered off."

"Or wandered in," Ryan said, swimming up to them. "I thought I'd come out and see what the big attraction was."

"Oh," Simon said, thinking quickly. "Miss, ah, you didn't tell me your name."

Paula slipped off the float to tread water next to them. "Paula Abdul."

"Miss Abdul, Mr. Seacrest," Simon said, and they shook hands.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Abdul," Ryan said. "Mr. Leach has told me so little about you."

"Well, ah, we only just met a few minutes ago," Simon said.

"Yes, just now on the float," Paula said.

"Only a few minutes ago?" Ryan asked. "And you talk like old friends. Well, they do say we Americans are friendly, don't they, Miss Abdul?"

"I was thinking of renting a motorboat," Simon said. "Ryan, would you like me to teach you how to drive a one?"   
"Thanks, but I've won the speedboat races at Catalina Island three years running," he replied.

"Well, it was just an idea," Simon replied.

Ryan cocked his head. "Are you sure you were talking about speedboats?" he asked. "Looked to me like Miss Abdul was starting a very different sort of race."

Paula scowled.

"Say something nice to him, Paula," Simon said.

Paula regarded him. "He looks even more ordinary, up close," she said.

Simon turned to Ryan.

"Better than being obvious about one's charms," Ryan replied.

"Obvious?" Paula said. "Why don't you swim a little closer and say that again?"

Simon tried to keep from smirking and failed.

"Having a nice time, are you, Leach?" Ryan asked.

"The sun is very nice," Simon replied.

"Well, it's too much for me. I'm going in. I'll see you at the hotel." Ryan turned and swam back in.

"Thanks, Paula, that was very helpful," Simon said.

Paula just smiled. "You know I'm right," she said. "Keep going after that boy, or his daddy's jewels, and you'll end up dead or in jail."

"I'll take my chances," Simon replied.

He went to the cabana and changed, and as he slipped on his jacket he noticed that the list in his pocket was a bit more crumpled than before. He took it out, and there was a distinct wet fingermark on the paper for which he was sure he was not responsible. He handed the cabana key back to the attendant—the same young man who'd been there the day before. Worried, he walked back to the hotel, to see Ryan standing just outside in his third outfit of the day—trousers, a shirt and a sleeveless sweater, all in varying shades of deep green.

"Do you have time for me now?" he asked.

Simon winced. "I'm sorry I was so long out there at the float."

Ryan shrugged. "I've known you for a day. I have no claims of ownership."

"Yes, well," Simon said. "How about cocktails? Six o'clock?"

"Oh, we can talk about that on the way," Ryan replied.

"On the way to what?"

"Well, to rent you a villa," Ryan said, smiling.

Simon crossed his arms. "Renting a villa is a personal decision—"

"I have my car right here," Ryan went on, "and a picnic lunch with chicken and beer."

"No, I can't take advantage of you like that. It's bound to be a tiring trip over all those mountain roads—"

"That I know like the back of my hand," Ryan said. "We've been coming here for years. And I'm from California. Any excuse to drive is good for me."

"I was going to hire an English-speaking chauffeur."

"Now you've got a French-speaking one, too," Ryan replied.

Simon sighed. "It appears you've thought of everything."

"I usually do," Ryan said. "I'm a very good planner."

"I see that. Well, no sense in resisting any further."

Ryan led Simon to a small blue two-seater parked just next to the hotel.

"A French car?" Simon asked.

"Yeah, it's our one big indulgence, keeping a car on the continent," he replied. "But I love driving, and Merv loves being driven, so there you go. I'm sorry these aren't your door handles."

"Well, no, they wouldn't be," Simon said, deftly avoiding Ryan's little trap. "What with the Citroen bodies being American-made and all."

"Exactly," Ryan said, pulling on a pair of soft leather driving gloves. "Merv has a cap and goggles in the glove box if you want them. I'll warn you, I drive pretty fast."

"I'm sure I'll be just fine," Simon said.

"Great. I like feeling the wind in my hair myself, and it's warm enough today that we can do without overcoats I think. Where is our first stop?" he asked.

Simon pulled out the list, holding it at an angle so Ryan couldn't read it. "Avenue Albert Ler," he replied.

Ryan looked at him for a moment. "I know exactly where that is," he said, and pulled out onto the street.

* * *

 

As they drove up into the mountains above the coast, Ryan checked his rearview mirror. Yep, that ugly black car that had left the hotel when they did was still there—definitely the cops.

"You know," Ryan said, "I've been waiting all morning for you to mention that kiss I gave you last night."

"What makes you think I welcomed or even enjoyed that kiss last night?" Simon asked. "Perhaps I was trying desperately to forget it, and hoped that you had as well."

Ryan raised one eyebrow. "You're not that good an actor," he replied.

"That's right, you're a scion of the theater. Were you born in a costume trunk?"

"Even I'm not that small," Ryan said. "I was born on the prop bed the comedians used for the naughty nurse sketch."

"And you've been acting ever since?"

Ryan shrugged. "Only when I was a kid. They put me on the stage at six months when they discovered I could cry and laugh on cue. Nowadays I'm more of a master of ceremonies."

"You like running things, then?"

"I'm good at keeping the show moving," Ryan replied.

"Quite. Inviting me to your room this morning, and then a swim and this drive."

"I like to cut through the bullshit," Ryan said.

"And how. You're like a well-oiled machine."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Ryan said, grinning. "Speaking of which, what got you into the door handle business, anyway?" he asked.

"I like cars," Simon replied.

"Doing well for you?"

"Very. It's a booming business."

"That it is," Ryan said. "The padre has three cars back in LA, just himself."

"Is he really your father," Simon said, "or are you two just acting?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Never heard an American call his father 'padre.' It's always 'dad' or 'pop' in the films. Besides, he doesn't seem the type, if you know what I'm saying."

"I do," Ryan said. "Merv's the only father I've known. He married my mother before I was born, and it's his name on my birth certificate. Sure, maybe he didn't sire me, but he raised me."

"And put your mother in pictures."

Ryan grinned. "He's an amazing producer. I hope to be as good someday. But by the time we'd really hit it big—I mean, by the time we'd started making money from something other than Mom's films—she was already sick. She got to be a big movie star, but not the serenely retired wife of a mogul."

"If she was anything like you," Simon said, "I don't think she would have liked serene retirement much."

"Maybe not," Ryan said, cocking his head. "But I think she would have liked the money. As the padre said, she adored being a hostess. She was so warm, she'd make everyone feel at home, as if she'd given the party just so they would come. And her accent just made her sound more charming." He smiled, and then in a slightly higher voice said, "Dahlink, it eez vonderful to see you!"

"Your mother wasn't American?" Simon asked, surprised.

Ryan shook his head. "She was born in Budapest as Eva Gabor. The padre saw her, changed her name to Evie Seacrest, and made her into a star in vaudeville and then on screen. Mom came to America with nothing, and now here we are back in Europe, rich enough to have—well, to have the problems of rich people I suppose."

"I thought rich people didn't have problems," Simon replied.

"So did I," Ryan said, "until I had money and realized the lengths that people will go to get near it, let alone get their hands on it."

"I see. Can't trust your friends?"

"Friends, usually. Lovers, I'm not so sure. And with Merv? It's hard to put one over on him, but impossible to put one over on both of us, so I like to keep an eye out." Ryan glanced at Simon. "As you saw last night, he's a sucker for self-made men. Unfortunately, most of them haven't exactly made it yet—that's what they need him for."

"Are you warning me off?" Simon asked.

"Should I be?" Ryan replied.

They arrived at the villa shortly after that, and walked up to the front of the house. It was enormous, twenty bedrooms at least, with a large formal garden bound by a stone wall, and a panoramic ocean view.

"Are you sure this is the right address?" Ryan asked.

"It is a bit large, but it's on the list," Simon replied. "No need to bother the people. We can just look at the gardens." He led the way, walking along the front of the house. "Why don't you have a place like this?" he asked.

"Palaces are for royalty. We're just show people," Ryan replied.

"Now you sound like your father's son," Simon said.

"We're not all that different. Perhaps just in matters of style." Ryan watched as Simon looked at the house—or at certain features, like the drainpipes that ran down from the roof and close to the bedroom balcony windows.

"Yes, I noticed that you don't go in for all those broaches and cravat pins and rings and the like."

"I like to spend my money on more tangible excitement."

"Oh?" Simon asked. "What do you get a thrill out of most?"

"I'm still looking for that one," Ryan replied. He watched Simon's eyes flicker up to the roof. "I thought we were going to walk in the garden," he said.

"Right," Simon replied, his eyes shifting quickly. "I was just interested in the architecture. Turn of the century Mediterranean, isn't it?"

"I believe so," Ryan said as they turned into the gardens. It was a lovely place, perfectly manicured. A breeze was coming up the cliff off the ocean and stirred their hair. "You've never mentioned a wife," he said.

"Never found time to get married," he replied.

"Really? That woman from the float this morning certainly behaved like a wife—or an ex-wife. Awfully territorial."

"Jealous?" Simon asked.

"No, merely disappointed in your limited imagination. What is she, a dancer at one of the clubs in town? Some girl you married before you struck it rich with your door handles and decided to trade up?"

"Sounds like jealousy to me," Simon said, grinning.

"Listen to that ego!" Ryan said.

"Takes one to know one," Simon replied. He looked up at the house, and Ryan's eyes followed his to a dark-haired woman in a deep blue dress walking into the garden. "Mr. Seacrest, you know what I think about you?"

"I'm all ears, Mr. Leach," Ryan replied.

The woman walked closer, then suddenly turned along one of the paths, Simon watching him all the way. "I think you're not sure if the men you attract want you, your money, or the stardom they think you and your father might get for them."

"That's somewhat obvious," Ryan said. "Anything else?"

"I'd say you need a good man," Simon said, "one you can't outsmart or outtalk. But I don't think you'd listen."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Sounds pretty corny to me," he replied.

"I reckon it does," Simon said.

They wandered back to the car, and as Ryan pulled out of the drive he saw the police car waiting for them, and pulling in behind them.

"So what about this picnic you mentioned?" Simon asked.

"I have the perfect spot picked out," Ryan said.

"Of course you do. How far is it?"

"Oh, just a few miles up the road."

Simon glanced at the side mirror. "I thought you said you liked to drive fast."

"Hang on," Ryan said, and hit the gas. He knew these roads very well; he and Merv had been coming to the Riviera for the past five years. The car was made for racing so it took the turns pretty damn fast, and he could get close to the edge of the road without worrying too much. Anyway, there was a wall along the cliffside.

The cops behind them were keeping up, but only just barely. Ryan was mostly keeping his eyes on the road, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that Simon had _his_ eye on the mirror, and looked uneasy.

"Is the speed making you nervous?" Ryan asked.

"No," Simon replied. "I've just never been comfortable in a car I wasn't driving."

They were coming into a village now, and Ryan was hoping they'd glide through it, but no such luck. An old woman was wandering across the street, carrying her laundry. Ryan screeched to a halt about two feet from her, and noticed Simon's foot pressing on a nonexistent brake on his side of the car.

"Cutting it a bit close, weren't you?" Simon asked.

"Not really," Ryan said, speeding up again once they left the village. A bit later they came out of a turn to a chicken in the middle of the road. Ryan went around it easily, but the cops behind him, from the sound of the crash, weren't so lucky. He slowed down.

"Lost your nerve?" Simon asked.

"No," Ryan said. "No need to race now that we've lost the cops."

"The police? Following us?"

"Yes, the police, following you, Simon Cowell, the Cat."

Simon's eyes grew wide, but he said nothing more until they got to the picnic spot, a little overlook where the car just fit. "What was that you called me?"

"You heard me," Ryan said, handing Simon the key. "The basket's in the trunk. I'd get it but the drop off is pretty steep on my side."

Simon dutifully retrieved their lunch, and they opened the basket on the seat between them. "So what makes you think that I'm this cat burglar?" he asked.

Ryan opened a bottle and handed it to Simon, then opened his own. "Well, the first time I wondered about you was the first time I saw you—yesterday morning, on the beach at Cannes. You swam in from a motorboat driven by that girlfriend of yours, and then you just sat down next to us even though anyone could see you were jumpy as—well, as a cat, I guess," he said, smiling. "And then you had a phone call. But why would you have a call so quickly? And why would the attendant know you, when I'd never seen you around the beach yet this season?" He reached into the basket. "Leg or breast?"

"You decide," Simon replied.

Ryan handed him a leg. "And then you turned up in the casino and attached yourself to Merv—a little clumsily I must say—and you were absolutely too good to be true. A businessman who never talks about business? Especially to someone as successful as Merv?"

"Did it occur to you that I'm on holiday, and don't care to discuss business?" Simon asked.

"I've met a lot of successful businessmen," Ryan said, "and when they get around each other, that's _all_ they talk about. That's why they're successful—it's damn near all they think about."

"Well, I'm different."

"I'll say," Ryan said, letting himself leer a little. "Besides, door handles? The car business has been stalled out for almost eighteen months now. Market's saturated."

"Don't tell me you read the _Financial Times_."

"Don't tell me you don't. Whoever you got this identity from, they're sure not on the Riviera this year."

"That's what you say," Simon replied.

"Plus you got that name from a certain up-and-coming actor, a former acrobat from England who just made a big splash in the latest Mae West film." Ryan tsked. "Oh, he has a different stage name now, but still, that was just sloppy. Of course we'd know of him. I actually know him rather well." Ryan winked.

"Two people could have the same name," Simon said.

"They could," Ryan said, "but I bet you knew Archie back when he was tumbling, and seeing him in the movie put him in the front of your mind. That's usually how it works with assumed names, a kind of word association that makes it easier to remember who you're supposed to be. I bet you tumbled yourself—same kind of skills that make it easy to walk across tile roofs and shimmy down air shafts and drain pipes."

"You make it sound so glamorous," Simon said.

"And then this morning you pretended not to know Paula." Ryan shook his head. "It's a good thing you're good at stealing, because you sure as hell aren't good at the con, long or short."

"And you're a judge of this how?"

"How do you think?" Ryan grinned at him. "Anyway show business is a kind of con," he said. "We distract people and then take their money. We just manage the further trick of making them happy for having lost it."

"You keep talking like this," Simon said, "and I'll wind up in a French jail for something I didn't do."

"Not if we can help it," Ryan said.

"We?"

"Really, I'm not sure how you got by on your own this long," Ryan said. "Did you use an inside man? You mingle pretty well, but you're an awfully bad liar."

"Isn't that a compliment?"

"Not really. So was Merv your target, or are you after someone else?"

"Well, under the circumstances, someone else," Simon said, scowling.

"Someone like the Divers?" he asked.

"Who?"

"That villa we just visited isn't for rent and you know it. The Divers have owned it for five years now. I'm going to a party there next week. But I bet I know why it was on that list of yours. Nicole Diver has some very nice pieces, well worth the taking."

"Mr. Seacrest, I really have no idea what you're talking about."

"I think it's about time you called me Ryan. I'll call you Simon, if that's okay."

Simon grabbed Ryan's arm and pulled him closer. "I am not this Cat," he said.

Ryan looked into Simon's eyes, surprised, and saw anger there, but also something else. He wasn't in much danger—physically, anyway. He just needed to play this out the right way. "Then why were the cops following us?" Ryan asked. He looked down at Simon's hand on his arm. "You've got a strong grip. The kind a burglar needs."

Simon looked at him for a long moment, then kissed him.

"I was wondering when you'd get to that," Ryan murmured.

"Isn't that why you brought me up here?" Simon asked, and kissed him again.

"My suite, tonight. Cocktails at eight, dinner at eight-thirty."

Simon kissed him again. "I already have plans."

"No you don't," Ryan said.

"I do, to watch the fireworks."

"View's better from my room," Ryan said.

"And your father?"

"Merv _does_ have a date, with the man from Pathé-Cinéma to talk about the new sound films."

"Well, I guess I don't have a choice," Simon said.

"You sure don't," Ryan said, and kissed him again.

* * *

 

Simon wasn't sure, as he dressed for dinner with Ryan, if the afternoon had been successful or not. Seeing Kara at the Divers' villa hadn't been that much of a surprise, all things considered, and he had got a good sense of how he would approach the house if he were to break into it. And then of course there was Ryan, too pleased by half at figuring out who Simon really was. He was right that Simon wasn't very good at the con—he'd never had to be, and he'd always found it all but impossible to be anyone but himself. Simon was starting to pay more attention to Ryan than to matters at hand, but he couldn't quite help himself. They'd snogged in the car, up on the hillside, and then he'd challenged Ryan to drive down the hill as fast as he'd driven up, which Ryan had done with alacrity. Clearly a complicated young man.

Simon's phone rang, rousing him from his reverie. "Hello?"

"Who was the pretty boy?"

"Ah, Kara," Simon said.

"Sorry I couldn't stop and chat when I saw you up at the Divers' place," she said. "Didn't know your new name. Had to get it out of Paula."

"That's fine. What were you doing there?"

"Oh, we're catering their party next week. I was checking out the kitchens. Bet I know what you were doing there."

"Do you?"

"Plenty of wealthy people are going to be at that party."

"Yes," Simon said. "Good bait for a burglar, wouldn't you say? I suppose the old gang will be at the party, working."

"Of course."

"Paula says they've been threatening me."

"Oh, they've been too busy to try anything like that," Kara said.

"Well, please keep them busy."

"So who was the pretty boy? Gonna bring him to the restaurant?"

"No, we're dining in this evening, thank you," Simon replied.

"Ah well. I'll talk to you soon. Good luck."

"Somehow I'm not sure you mean that," Simon said, and Kara was chuckling as he rang off.

Ryan looked good in his evening suit, as he had the night before. "I"m relieved to know you recognize me in my clothes as well as out of them," he said, handing Simon a manhattan.

Simon raised his eyebrows. "Whatever do you mean?"

"On the beach. I noticed, when we'd changed into our suits, that you realized you'd seen me before."

"Perhaps I was just admiring the view," Simon said.

Ryan cocked his head, smiling a bit. "I hope you like this one as well," he said.

"If you must fish for compliments," Simon replied, "then yes, I do. You have quite nice eyes, actually. A lovely green."

"Pity they're not emerald green, as I'm sure you'd like them more," Ryan said. "But I wasn't fishing. I was talking about the fireworks."

"Of course you were," Simon said.

There was a knock on the door. "Oh, there's dinner," Ryan said, and let in the waiter with his cart.

"Smells lovely," Simon said.

Ryan smiled. "Boeuf en croute. Beef Wellington I think you call it. And some American-style shrimp cocktail, just because I like it."

"Do you always get what you like?" Simon asked.

"No, actually," Ryan said. "The padre believes in hard work and so do I." He removed the lid from the appetizers. "But we never discuss business over dinner. Disturbs your enjoyment of the food."

"What business do we have?"

Ryan smirked. "Have it your way," he said.

But he stuck to his rule—over dinner they talked about food and cars, mostly, and their shared interest in music. He even told Ryan about his own early days in the business, before he started stealing. It took a lot of effort not to let this kid charm him into a false sense of security.

Dessert finished, the waiter came to take the cart away and Ryan stood to turn out the lights. "Fireworks are better with the lights off, aren't they?" he asked.

"As are other things," Simon replied.

Ryan smiled as he poured them each a brandy. "So," Ryan said, "will the Divers' villa really be your next job?"

"My next what?" Simon asked.

"You know, you really should wait until the party next week." Ryan handed him a snifter. "Everyone who matters will be there, and lots of folks will be staying over. Much bigger score. I can get you in—it's a costume party, Italian Renaissance. Since we're show folk we're dressing commedia dell'arte—the Padre is going as Scaramuccia."

"And you?"

"Columbina," he said, walking out onto the balcony.

Simon followed. "That's a female character, Ryan."

He smiled. "Oh, I'll be wearing pants—or those Renaissance tights, anyway. I just like her best. We could sneak you in as Harlequin—he wears a mask and a cap."

Simon cocked his head. "Isn't Harlequin Columbina's lover?"

"Traditionally, yes," he replied.

"You're quite a determined young man."

"Perhaps," he said.

"So let's say I _am_ a burglar—why would you want to help me?"

"The fun of the thing, I guess," Ryan said, shrugging. "Why, have you had a better offer?"

"I haven't had a crazier one," Simon replied.

"Well, as long as you're satisfied," Ryan said, turning to him.

"Time will tell," Simon said, and kissed him.

When they pulled away to breathe Ryan said, "I think we should move this inside, don't you?"

"You don't seem the type to worry about propriety," Simon said.

"No," Ryan said, "but we didn't get where we are by giving folks a free show, either."

* * *

 

It wasn't easy, leaving Ryan snoozing on the couch, but Simon wasn't there to romance Americans, and Ryan was quickly becoming a distraction. He nipped back out onto the balcony before he left, glancing up at the rooftops, then went back to his room and sat in the dark, smoking and watching and waiting.

About an hour or so later, his door opened and Ryan burst into the room. "Where are they?" he demanded.

"Where are what?" Simon asked, standing and turning on the light.

"Padre's jewels, of course. Give them back."

"I don't have them, Ryan," he said.

"Why you—" and Ryan was at him, swinging wildly, and it took all of his strength to pin Ryan to the wall and shut the door.

"When did it happen?" Simon asked.

"Just now, while I was sleeping," Ryan said.

"Let's look," Simon said, heading for the door.

"Why look anywhere but here?" Ryan asked.

"Go right ahead," Simon said, and headed upstairs.

Merv was at the door when he got there, resplendent in caftan and turban. "Did you see Ryan?" he asked. "Did he tell you what happened?"

"Yes. He's downstairs searching my room."

"That's strange. He said he knew where the jewels were."

"Well, he was wrong," Simon replied. "May I look at your room?"

"Whatever you like," Merv said. "Though I half-hope neither of you find anything at all."

"Why do you say that?" Simon asked.

"Always retire the act leaving them wanting more," Merv said. "Time for a new schtick. Maybe some of those double-breasted suits and a nice hat and cane."

"Well, sure, you can take that attitude as long as you have Ellen waiting to pay your insurance."

"Of course. I'm not an idiot, you know."

"I know," Simon said, looking around the room. "Where did you keep them?"

"Over there," Merv said, indicating an open case sitting atop his bureau. He sat down in one of the chairs. "Watch for fingerprints."

"There won't be any," he replied. He poked his head out the window, then into the little hall connecting Merv's bedroom with the sitting room. "He came in through that air shaft," Simon said, pointing up at the opening in the ceiling.

Ryan came in then. "Padre, why did you let him in?"

"Oh Ryan," Merv replied, "I don't know why you thought he did it."

"Because he tried to con us," he replied.

"Inexpertly," Merv pointed out.

"Con you?" Simon asked.

"Why would he pull a job in this room," Merv went on, paying him no mind, "if everyone knew he was in the room?"

"A double-bluff?" Ryan said.

Merv raised an eyebrow. "You really think he's good enough to pull that off? Pretending to be badly conning us so he could actually con us?"

Ryan slumped down into the chair. "Well, no," he said, flashing a sheet of paper, "but I did find his so-called 'realtor list' in his room—it's the details of all the folks with jewelry worth stealing, and guess who's right at the top?"

Simon quickly took the list back. "I'm sorry, I think I'm missing something here," he said. "Double-bluff? How do you know about that? I thought you were a movie mogul."

"How do you think we raised the money to put Ryan's mother Eva in that first movie, eh?" Merv asked. "Or got through the lean times, like the panic of '07?"

"You're con men?" Simon asked.

"Were," Merv said, "before Eva made it big. There's never been a kid who could draw out the mark like Ryan. He seems so ordinary and trustworthy."

"I get underestimated a lot," Ryan said.

"I expect you do," Simon replied, feeling like he'd lost his footing.

"And then when Eva batted those big brown eyes, well, we had them eating out of the palms of our hands," Merv said.

Simon turned to Ryan. "No wonder you're looking for excitement."

Ryan was sitting in the chair playing with an umbrella. "I told you the truth," Ryan said. "You just didn't believe me. You, on the other hand, have told lie after clumsy lie since the day we met."

"Never mind that, Ryan," Merv said. "What do we do now?"

"I didn't steal the jewels," Simon insisted.

"Yeah, yeah, I know the story," Merv said. "Trying to go straight but the gang won't let you."

"In this case, the law," Simon said. "They'd love to put me back in again."

"Well, we have our honor, even if you don't," Ryan said. "We're sure as hell not going to hand you over to any damn cops. But we'll have to call them for the padre to get his money back." Ryan stood up. "So I guess you'd better go."

"Ryan, I—"

"You don't have a lot of time. Sun's coming up in an hour or two." He stared at Simon, his eyes hard. "I'd shake your hand, but I think we've gone past that, don't you?"

Simon's shoulders fell. "Right, well." He turned to Merv. "Mr. Griffin."

"Mr. Cowell," Merv said, nodding.

With that Simon went out onto the balcony, swung up onto the drain pipe, and ran away across the rooftops.

* * *

 

Ellen and the cops came and went, and then the maids tidied up. Ryan took a bath and changed clothes, but he couldn't quite clean Simon off his skin, which made him grouchy.

And Merv wasn't helping.

"Honestly, what is wrong with you?" Merv asked. "What happened to the boy I raised?"

"Sorry, Padre," Ryan said. "Guess I got distracted and took my eye off the ball."

"I'll say, but not in the way you think."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that of course Simon didn't steal my jewels. He might not be a good con artist but he's a damn good thief and he's far from being an idiot."

"But Merv—"

"I talked to Ellen, while you were bathing," Merv said. "Seems Cowell was trying to set a trap for the cat, because the cops won't leave the man alone. He doesn't want to go back to jail. Can you blame him?"

"Set a trap?" Ryan asked. "He could have done a better job."

"Maybe he got distracted, too," Merv said.

Ryan flushed. "Still, that doesn't mean he wasn't trying to pull one over on us!"

"You know he wasn't," Merv said. "You're just mad because he can keep up with you. Maybe what you need is a real challenge, rather than all that cheap excitement you're always chasing."

"Oh really?"

"You noticed, I believe, that as soon as we could afford to go legit, we did?" Merv asked. "What makes you think Cowell is any different?"

Ryan scowled. "I just hoped he wouldn't steal from _you_."

"Maybe he didn't, Ryan," Merv said. "Maybe he didn't."

* * *

 

Simon lay low for a few days. The cops went to his villa, to Kara's restaurant, to the Carlisle hotel, but he wasn't there. As soon as he could, he contacted Ellen, who came out to meet him in a lounge in one of the seedier parts of town.

"Still think I did the Griffin job?" he asked.

"I did, but not now that you've sent for me. Why risk my bringing the cops?" Ellen paused. "I told them what you were doing. Well, Merv at least. He'll straighten Ryan out."

Simon scowled. "What makes you think I care about that?"

"Oh, nothing," Ellen said.

"I called you to talk business."

"Shoot."

"I've been watching one of the other villas on the list—that Bourne place—for the past three nights. Someone else has been watching it, too, but I haven't been able to get close enough to see who it was."

"They see you?"

"I'm pretty sure, since they sent me a warning—slipped it into my housekeeper's market basket."

"A warning?"

"They told me to stay away tonight, in particular."

"I'm new to this," Ellen said, "but that sounds like a trap to me."   
"Of course it is," Simon said. "But I can set a trap, too. I need you to make sure the police are there after midnight."

"Sounds like quite a party," Ellen said.

"Doesn't it just?"

"But if it goes wrong—the police might capture you and not this other cat. Or worse."

"It won't go wrong," Simon said. "Another drink?"

* * *

 

Ryan hadn't heard from or of Simon in almost four days now. Ryan couldn't blame him—he'd been sent away pretty firmly. And whether he'd stolen Merv's jewels or not, underground was where he needed to be right now. Ryan had seen all the police activity—the street was far too hot for Simon to be out and about.

Ryan came along on Merv's morning walk, as the padre was trying to get him out and keep him from "brooding." Ryan, for his part, didn't se why he shouldn't brood if he wanted to. Nearby, a voice cried out, "Le chat est mort! Le chat est mort!"

Ryan turned toward the voice and saw a newspaper kiosk. He quickly bought a paper.

"The cat is dead?" Merv asked as Ryan scanned the article. "It isn't—"

"No," Ryan said, sighing in relief. "It's another man—Jackson, a band leader at one of the restaurants."

"Thank goodness," Merv said.

"The cops caught him at the Bourne villa, but he fell off the seawall and into the water."

Merv smiled smugly. "Guess you'd better get your apology ready, eh, Ryan?"

"Yeah," Ryan said. "Guess I'd better."

* * *

 

Randy's funeral, of course, was a farce. Simon wasn't even sure why he bothered, except to keep up appearances. Or perhaps it was a little show of defiance to the old gang who'd stolen his methods and tried to set him up as the fall guy. Well, nuts to that.

Paula was in her widow's weeds, exulting in her chief mourner role, black lace veil and all as if she actually were French. Kara stood behind her, but when she spotted Simon she made her way over to him through the crowd. "Didn't think you had the balls to show up," she whispered.

"Randy was my friend, not too long ago," Simon replied.

"It's a sad business."

"Sad because it wasn't me who died last night, you mean?"

Kara sighed. "Poor Paula. I feel very badly for her."

"I'll look out for Paula," he said. "Or Randy will from beyond the grave—he apparently stole enough stuff to keep a roof over her head."

"Ah, but no one knows where it is," Kara said. "The police have looked everywhere and they haven't found it."

"I'm sure it'll turn up," Simon said.

"We all owe you many thanks."

"For what?"

"For risking so much to catch the Cat," Kara said, "and get the cops off our backs."

"Oh, right," Simon said. "Glad to be of service."

"But you know, you have a good thing with that pretty boy of yours—what's his name?"

"You mean Ryan Seacrest?" Simon asked.

"When are you going to America?" Kara asked.

"Didn't know I was."

"Be a mistake to let that one slip through your fingers," Kara said. "I'm sure Los Angeles is more your speed than sleepy little Nice."

"We can discuss their relative merits at the Divers' party this weekend."

Kara looked at him, surprised. "You aren't on the guest list."

"I'll be invited. You know, the pretty boy."

"What will your costume be?" she asked.

Simon smiled. "I want it to be a surprise."

The priest finished talking, and people were about to take up handfuls of earth to drop on the coffin. Paula looked up then, seeming to see Simon for the first time. "What are you doing here?" she shouted. "You betrayed him! He was your friend and now he's dead and it's your fault!" She stepped closer to Simon. "Killer! Killer! Murderer!"

Simon stood his ground, saying nothing.

Paula lunged at him suddenly, nails out to scratch, and he struggled with her for a moment before the others pulled her back. He turned and walked out of the cemetery in as dignified a manner as possible.

He'd sat down on a bench in the lane to catch his breath when he heard someone calling his name. Simon looked up and saw Ryan, sitting in his little car. Frankly, he wasn't sure he was up to all that. He got up and started walking in the other direction.

"Simon?"

He sighed. Well, best to get it over with now. He turned and walked over to the car.

"Hello," Ryan said.

"Hello."

"Look, I'm sorry I thought you took Merv's jewels. I guess I just wasn't thinking clearly."

"I don't know," Simon replied. "I didn't give you much reason to believe me."

"Can't we just start over? On the level?" Ryan asked. He held out a hand. "My name is Ryan Seacrest. I'm a movie producer and master of ceremonies, and when I was a kid I was a bad actor but quite a good con man."

Simon smiled and took his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ryan. I'm Simon Cowell. I used to manage musical acts, and then I became a thief. I served in the French Intelligence during the war, and now I'm a mediocre farmer."

Ryan shook his hand. "Come on, I'll give you a ride home to that mediocre farm."

Simon got into the car, and Ryan pulled out onto the road.

"So what are you going to do now?" Ryan asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Now that the Cat is dead."

Simon tsked. "Randy Jackson wasn't the Cat."

"But the papers said—"

"Randy didn't move that well even before his leg was shattered. After that it had several pins in it and he walked with a decided limp."

"Do the police know that?"   
"Of course they do," Simon replied. "But they needed a story to calm everyone down and make it look like they were actually doing something."

Ryan shook his head. "Sounds like the LA police," he said. "But if Jackson wasn't the Cat, why was he at the Bourne place?"

"To kill me."

"Why?"

"Because I was getting too close to the real Cat. Randy found me, and while we were struggling someone tried to hit me over the head with a wrench—only they missed and got Randy instead."

"But who killed him? The real Cat had to have been up on the roof, right?"

"I have an idea."

"But you're in the clear now, surely. You could skip out of it."

"No," Simon said. "Now that I've got into the habit of telling the truth, I rather like it. I need to see this thing through."

Ryan was quiet for a moment. "All right. Well, what can we do to help?"

"That invitation to the Divers' gala still open?" he asked.

"Yes, though we'll need to get you that costume," Ryan replied.

"You probably know my measurements by now," Simon said as they pulled up to his driveway.

"I'd like to know them better," Ryan replied.

Simon chuckled. "I'll call you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Okay," Ryan replied. "Kiss and make up?"

"But of course," Simon said, and did so.

* * *

 

"Okay, does everyone know what they're doing, or should I go over it again?" Ryan asked.

Simon huffed. "I think we all know," he said. Turning to Merv, he asked, "Is he always this bossy?"

Merv shrugged. "He can be," he replied, "especially when it's his plan." He smiled proudly. "One of his schemes got me out of jail, and he was only ten at the time."

"Thanks, Padre," Ryan said. The three of them, along with Ellen, were in one of the bedrooms of the Divers' villa, Ryan having been true to his word and gotten Simon an invitation to the Italian Renaissance-themed costume gala. Ryan adjusted his modified Columbina costume—a fitted white lace tunic over white hose and buckle shoes. Merv was dressed as Scaramuccia, all in black with a buttoned tunic, a large cape and a soft black hat that looked like a rather large beret.

Simon fidgeted in his Harlequin costume: large multicolored diamonds on the tight fitting tunic and hose, a white stiff ruffled Renaissance collar, a little hat with a feather, and a black mask obscuring his entire face. It was a bit showy for him, Ryan knew, but he'd had to agree with Ryan that the costume perfectly suited their needs. Besides, the traditional lover of Harlequin in the commedia dell'arte was Columbina, and as part of the plan was for Harlequin and Columbina to dance the night away, it was highly appropriate.

"Well, let's go downstairs," Ryan said. "Ellen, we'll see you in a bit."

"Right-o, chief," Ellen said, giving Ryan a mock salute.

Downstairs they waited to go into the party, which was in the courtyard and gardens Ryan and Simon had walked through only a few days earlier. The Divers, a wealthy American couple who'd single-handedly created most of the fashionable lifestyle of the French Riviera when they'd first summered there five years back, had set themselves up on a dais as the Duke and Duchess of Florence, Cosimo de Medici and Eleanor of Toledo. As the guests walked into the party, they bowed to their hosts as the rest of the assembled guests applauded. Ryan thought all the pomp and circumstance was sort of silly and a bit on-the-nose—look at us, rulers of Riviera society!—but the Divers gave great parties and were fun to be around if you didn't get too close.

Everyone was in costume, not only the Divers' servants but also the servers from Kara's restaurant and even the band. Ryan, Simon and Merv bowed to their hosts and smiled for the photographers before wandering into the crowd.

"Any man you see without a woman on his arm—or another man—is bound to be a policeman," Simon muttered. "Over there is the chief, standing near where Paula is serving. That woman next to her is Kara, the owner of the restaurant."

"That's the woman we saw that day we were here," Ryan said.

"Yes, she said she was inspecting the kitchens," Simon replied. "Well, let's get our drinks, shall we?"

They walked over to where Paula was pouring champagne. "Oh look, Padre, it's that girl I was telling you about," Ryan said. "Paula, isn't it?"

"That's right," she said, scowling. "Mr. Seacrest."

"Please, we're old friends," he said. "Call me Ryan."

"Of course, Ryan," she said through her teeth. She handed them glasses of champagne.

"Oh heck," Merv said, patting down his costume.

"What's wrong, Padre?"

"My heart pills. Can't drink without my heart pills. Must have left them in the room."

"You're getting senile in your old age," Ryan said.

Merv tapped Simon. "Simon, be a dear and go fetch them for me?"

"Of course," Simon replied.

Ryan shot his father a dirty look as Simon walked away. "Jeez, Padre! What's the point of the mask?"

"What? Oh, I'm sorry kiddo," he replied. "Hope I didn't ruin anything."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Just don't say anything more," he muttered.

As they waited, Ryan saw the chief watch Simon go back into the house. Then the chief wandered through the party, talking to all those unaccompanied men, and finally the Divers.

The Harlequin returned, pills in hand. "Thank you, dear," Merv said. "Now you two kids go off and dance. I see Lady Ashley over there; she's always good for some gossip."

"All right," Ryan said, and let the Harlequin lead him to the dance floor. As they walked he leaned in and whispered, "Everything go all right?"

"Yep," Ellen answered. "What about on this end?"

"They ate it up," Ryan said.

"Mind if I lead?" she asked. "Kinda used to it."

"Don't mind at all," Ryan said, and let Ellen hold him close.

"Gosh, was your boy ever glad to get out of this get up and into his blacks," Ellen whispered. "Though I'm not sure I look as good in it as he did."

Ryan chuckled. "You look fine," he replied.

"So do you," Ellen said. "Maybe I should get Portia one of these costumes."

"She'd make a beautiful Columbina," Ryan replied. "You've got a good fox trot. I should dance with you more often."

"You might be sick of me by the end of the night," Ellen replied.

They stayed on the dance floor, song after song, stopping occasionally for another cocktail but making sure to stay visible. Ryan watched Merv wandering through the crowd, devil-may-care as usual, dining out on his jewel theft. Finally, some four hours later, the band stopped playing. Ryan looked around and realized that almost everyone else had left the courtyard, so Ellen escorted him inside.

As they went up the stairs and turned the corner, Ryan could see the policemen following them out of the corner of his eye. "Don't say anything," he muttered to Ellen. "They're going to be behind us until we get inside the bedroom."

Ellen held the door open as Ryan went inside. He poked his head back out and winked at the cops standing in the hall. "Good night, fellas," he said, yanking Ellen into the room by her ruffed collar.

When the door was safely shut behind them, Ellen took off her mask, hat, and the wig that had covered her blonde hair and sank down onto the bed. "Phew," she said, kicking off her shoes. "I hope the LA office appreciates my efforts. And for Portia's sake, Ryan, I'm awfully glad you're a man."

Ryan chuckled. "Thanks."

Merv, who'd been dozing on the chaise, stirred at the noise. "Everything go as planned?" he asked.

"I hope so," Ryan said. "At least the cops bought it." He walked over to the french doors and pushed them open, walking out onto the balcony and looking up at the roof. Simon was up there, somewhere. All Ryan could do was get him there—the rest was up to Simon.

* * *

 

Simon sat nestled next to a chimney, watching as Ellen and Ryan made their way back into the house, two policemen close behind, and stifled a chuckle. Ryan was definitely better at a con than Simon, he had to give the kid that. Kara's workers had all but finished packing up, and most of them got into the catering van, though Kara and Paula slipped into a separate car. It was quiet after that, the cops keeping watch all around the building, and after another hour Simon was wondering if he'd been wrong, when he heard the sound of a tile on the roof shifting. He crouched down and there, running along the ridge line, pouch in hand, was his rival Cat.

Simon crept toward the Cat, careful to skip any loose tile, when the Cat saw him and made a clumsy leap, causing a loud clatter. It was easy for Simon to catch up then, grab the Cat and pull off the black mask—to reveal Paula.

"I knew it was you the night Randy died!" he said. "He never could climb anything. But you always did Randy's legwork for him, even in the war."

Paula was struggling in his grip, but he had her, until the cops started shouting and shining a searchlight around. "Come down, Cowell! Or we will be forced to shoot!"

Paula freed herself and scampered away across the tiles. He heard her crashing against the roof, and crouched down, waiting for her to show herself.    
"Come down, Cowell!" the chief said again, followed by two gunshots.

Simon stayed very still.

"Stop shooting!" he heard Ryan shout. "He's not the Cat!"

"Then what is he doing up on the roof?" the chief asked.

"_Your job_!" Ryan said.

"No, he's right where I knew he'd be. Men like him never go straight," the chief replied. "Isn't that right, Cowell?"

Simon ignored the commotion. Paula revealed herself, starting to move across the roof again. Simon stayed tight to the roof, and there was another gunshot or two.

"He's not alone up there!" he heard Ellen shout.

"Stand down," the chief said, and Simon sighed in relief. He stood up into a crouch and started to move in closer to Paula. She turned and saw him, then jumped down onto one of the lower roofs. But her footing wasn't sure, and she rolled off the roof, just catching herself on the gutter.

Simon followed her, jumping down onto the roof and sliding down to the gutter to grab her hand.

"Pull me up!" Paula shouted, throwing the bag of jewels down on the ground in front of the police.

"Don't shout, Paula," Simon said. "It makes me nervous. I might drop you."

"Then drop me!"

Simon grinned, lowering his arm. "Whatever you say …"

"No!" Paula shouted.

Simon pulled her up slightly. "All right, you've got a full house down there. Begin the performance."

"What performance?" she asked, scowling.

"You know, the one in which you start telling the truth?"

"But please Simon, I might slip."

Simon cocked his head. "I figure I can hold you for about thirty seconds, no more."

"I did it for Randy," Paula said.

"Well that's fine but I already know it. You're telling them down there, remember?"

She grimaced. "I'll kill you when I get up there!"

"_If_ you get up here. Tell them!"

Paula turned and shouted, "I was working for my husband!" She turned back to Simon. "Now please …"

"Your husband is conveniently dead. Who else?"

"That's all."

"You know, I'm out of training. My fingers are beginning to open. Tell them who was behind it, who engineered the whole thing, who knew my methods as well as I did?"

"You little—"

"Go on, go on!"

"Kara, Kara was behind it," Paula said.

"You're telling them down there, remember?"

"Kara was behind it!" she shouted.

Simon took a breath, for the first time in weeks, it seemed. "That's all right, come on," he said, pulling Paula safely up onto the roof.

* * *

 

Ryan sat in his car just outside the police station, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. They'd finished questioning him, Ellen and Merv a couple of hours ago, and Ellen had taken Merv back to the hotel, but Simon was still talking to them. It was past sunrise when he finally came out.

"Need a ride?" Ryan asked.

"You know," Simon said, standing on the curb, "I do have a car."

"I know."

"And I quite enjoy driving."

"I'm sure you do," Ryan said. "But your car isn't here and mine is."

Simon scowled, but hopped in.

"So I was thinking," Ryan said as they drove up into the hills, "I mean, do you really want to spend the rest of your life being a mediocre farmer?"

"Have something better in mind?" Simon asked.

"Well, I thought maybe you could go back into the music thing. You know, where you started."

"What about my distinct lack of respectability?" Simon asked.

"What about it?" Ryan replied. "You think that really matters in America? It'll just make you more in demand. Besides, all the clubs are run by gangsters."

"Ah, that's right. Prohibition."

"Yep. I'm sure there are plenty of singers who'd love a manager who knows how to deal with the criminal element."

"Any other reason I should go to America?" he asked.

"Well, Merv's taken quite a liking to you," Ryan replied.

"That all?"

Ryan grinned. "And I have no intention of letting you out of my sight. Look at the trouble you get yourself into."

Simon laughed. "Maybe you won't have to. But you should wait until you see what I'd be leaving behind."

They arrived at Simon's villa soon after, and Simon took him upstairs to show him the view. "It's gorgeous," Ryan admitted.

"So you want me to give this all up, for you?" Simon asked.

"Of course not," Ryan replied. "I'm not an idiot. We'll summer here, and rent it out the other time. Still plenty of folks wintering on the Riviera, you know."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "You're quite a hustler, you know that?" he said.

"Takes one to know one," Ryan said, and kissed him.


End file.
